


Not Tonight

by Twice_before_Friday



Series: October? No, I think you mean Whumptober [3]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Profiling, Gen, Strangulation, Undercover, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26792497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twice_before_Friday/pseuds/Twice_before_Friday
Summary: Prompt No 3. MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAYManhandled|Forced to their Knees| Held at GunpointWhile Malcolm ensures his profiles always account for a slight margin of error, he's typically quite accurate in his assessment of their suspects. Occasionally, though, he misses the mark completely.Like tonight.
Series: October? No, I think you mean Whumptober [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947595
Comments: 16
Kudos: 64
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Not Tonight

It's not unusual for things to go sideways on an undercover operation, but Malcolm's fairly certain that things have never gone this badly, this quickly.

While Malcolm ensures his profiles always account for a slight margin of error, he's typically quite accurate in his assessment of their suspects. Occasionally, though, he misses the mark completely.

Like tonight.

His profile suggested a white female between thirty and fifty, likely with body dysmorphic disorder and almost certainly with an abusive upbringing. All three of their victims have been slight men, slender and below average height, and if Edrisa's findings were correct, they'd all been strangled with paracord. The fact that their killer was strong enough to overpower them in the first place, and then keep them subdued for the several minutes it likely took to render them unconscious, suggested that their killer was either very strong or possessed enough body weight to overcome the victim's struggling.

So when he inevitably went undercover at their killer's hunting grounds — spending the night in a grungy night club in Queens because Malcolm fit the victim profile so well it was eerie — he was on the lookout for tall, strong, or overweight women.

He was not, therefore, looking for the petite woman who approached him as he was walking back to the bar from the bathroom, who asked him to escort her to the exit to avoid the attentions of an overly-aggressive man in the club that had been harassing her. He did, of course, and when they reached the exit, she thanked him and said she could get to her car on her own.

Malcolm, though, was uncomfortable with the idea of letting her walk alone when she was exhibiting so many hallmarks of anxiety and distress. Besides, the team had access to the surveillance system in the club and would be keeping an eye on things for the five minutes or so he'd be gone.

And so he'd led her out and escorted her to the nearby parkade — practically deserted so late at night — chatting amicably the whole time while ignoring the jibes Dani was making through his ear piece from the surveillance van parked a few blocks away. Instead, he smiled and maintained a respectful distance to ensure that the woman felt comfortable. 

But then, as they approached her Honda Civic, a man stepped out from behind a nearby pillar and ran straight for Malcolm. With nearly six inches and at least fifty pounds on Malcolm, his attacker had no trouble overpowering Malcolm, forcing him to his knees and wrapping a paracord three times around his throat.

Which is when Malcolm suddenly understands that his profile was wrong. They should have been looking for a duo all along.

It doesn't matter how hard he struggles — how many times his elbows fly back into his attacker, how hard he jerks himself to the side in an attempt to pull away, how deeply his nails dig into the thick leather gloves that the killer is sporting — Malcolm can't seem to free himself.

The woman watches from maybe ten feet ahead, appearing terrified but unwilling to look away, her eyes darting between Malcolm's struggling form and the man standing behind him, watching her partner with equal parts lust and fear.

Malcolm realizes his mistake as his vision begins to go fuzzy, a greying static invading his line of sight as his lungs begin to burn. His limbs begin to feel heavy, unwieldy, and though his brain is screaming to keep fighting, his body refuses to cooperate. His arms drop uselessly to his sides as the man tugs him back against his body, and Malcolm can feel the man's erection pressing between his shoulder blades.

Right as he's about to lose consciousness, the grip on the cord eases up, granting Malcolm enough space to suck in a wheezing gasp, but he's so busy focusing on the air that's clawing its way into his lungs that he can't fight against the man as he slides his arms under Malcolm's armpits and half-drags/half-carries Malcolm behind the car, hiding them from view from any cars that might happen to drive by.

"Stop," Malcolm manages to rasp once there's enough air in his lungs to get a word out, but the man just drops him on the ground, manhandling him onto his back with his hands crossed and pinned beneath him. When the man straddles Malcolm's waist, the extra weight on top of him makes it impossible to pull his arms free.

The woman kneels down beside his head biting her lip as the man grabs both ends of the cord and pulls. Hard.

It hurts. 

Within seconds it feels like his lungs are on fire and his trachea is being crushed. Tears stream down the sides of his face and he looks to the woman, pleading with his eyes for her to help, to do _something_ , but she merely watches while the man strangles the life out of Malcolm.

Malcolm kicks his legs weakly but his muscles refuse to act the way he wants them to. He even tries to plant his feet and buck his hips, hoping to throw the man off, but all that does is make the man grin, igniting a fire in his eyes that makes Malcolm's blood freeze.

He's going to die.

The realization slams into him hard enough to make his already racing heart beat even faster. The fact that the last things he's going to see in this life are the woman who led him to his death, the raging fire in this psychopath's eyes, and the cracked muffler of a shitty old Civic kind of pisses him off, but his vision is fading to black and he knows he won't be seeing anything at all soon.

But then there's squealing brakes, and shouts of, "NYPD, freeze," and at least two gunshots that Malcolm is aware of before a heavy weight falls on him, dripping warm and wet onto his chest and neck.

"Bright!" Dani calls, but it's muffled and Malcolm is fading away, pulled into the in-between, caught in that liminal state between life and death until the heavy weight is yanked off of him and the cord around his throat is released, freeing him to fight his way back, sucking in a breath that feels like jagged glass sliding down his throat.

"Call an ambulance!" Dani shouts as she cups his face, trying to draw Malcolm's attention. Trying to keep him conscious until help arrives. "Hold on, Bright. Help is coming, okay?"

He does. He holds on until the paramedics come and strap an oxygen mask to his face, which hurts like hell but also pushes more of the much needed oxygen into his aching lungs.

And then he lets himself drift away, secure in the thought that, even though his profile was useless, they've caught the killers and no one else is going to die.

At least, not tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the beta Kate!


End file.
